


Because You Saw Worlds In Me

by WhatIsAir



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Crack, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Spoilers for The Abominable Bride, john's emotional constipation, mentions of drug use, meta elements, sherlock has self-esteem issues, sherlock's emotional constipation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 19:00:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5638291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatIsAir/pseuds/WhatIsAir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you actually being serious?” John says. (Maybe he’s asleep and this is all a horrific dream.) “They’ve gone and made a film about our lives… in bloody Victorian London? Seriously, who comes up with these things?”</p>
<p>Anderson and Donovan look incredibly smug about the whole situation. John has never needed Sherlock to swoop in and interrupt a conversation so much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Because You Saw Worlds In Me

**Author's Note:**

> Just a heads-up the version of 'The Abominable Bride' I used in this story isn't canon-compliant, but the essence of it will largely be the same, so don't worry.
> 
> There was just no way I could make the jumps in and out of Sherlock's MP given that in this fic TAB is literally a film that John and Sherlock are watching.
> 
> That said, read on, and enjoy (:

“You’re all idiots, the lot of you!” Sherlock snaps, leaping to his feet with a typically dramatic flare of his coat behind him.

John resists the urge to roll his eyes as Sherlock flounces off to the other side of the room to peer closely at the mouldy, peeling wallpaper for evidence, leaving John standing with Donovan and Anderson besides the body.

“It might be worth having the morgue do an autopsy,” John remarks. He gestures to the prone figure’s neck. “There’re clear signs of asphyxiation; you only get bruises like those when you’re struggling against someone exerting pressure on your neck.”

When he glances up, it’s to find both Anderson and Donovan smirking at him.

“What?”’

“ _Isn’t he observant now that Daddy’s gone_ ,” Anderson says, his gaze flickering between John and Sherlock, still on the other side of the room and completely absorbed in his deductions.

John frowns. “What’s going on?”

Donovan sighs, the most put-upon John’s ever heard her. “Come on, John – don’t ruin it for everyone! Say it, say the line.” She clears her throat ceremoniously. “ _I can be quite observant in some ways, just as Holmes can be… quite blind in others_.”

“I’m sorry?” John says, glancing at Sherlock, then back at Anderson and Donovan. He feels like there’s something he’s missing here. “What’s this about Sherlock?”

Something in his expression must give him away, because the next moment –

“Oh, bless him – he doesn’t _know!_ ” Donovan cackles gleefully, turning to Anderson. “D’you reckon we should tell him?”

“Tell me what?” John asks, his ire rising. He pictures taking a swing at Anderson in his mind’s eye, just for fun. It’s not as satisfying as the real thing,

“Here, see for yourself,” Anderson says, pulling out his smartphone and typing something into the search engine. He hands John the phone after a few seconds. The first thing that assaults John’s eyes is the title of the article, splashed in bold print across the top of the page:

**HAT-MAN AND ROBIN MAKE IT ONTO THE BIG SCREEN IN DIRECTOR WILDER’S _THE ABOMINABLE BRIDE_**

“What the hell is this?” John says, glancing up at Anderson incredulously. “Is this a joke?”

Donovan shushes him. “Just keeping reading, John.”

John turns his attention back to the article:

_The blogger detectives that have become an internet phenomenon during recent years made their debut on the big screen last month, in Hollywood director Billy Wilder’s ‘The Abominable Bride’. In a surprising twist, however, the film transports our hero and his ever-faithful sidekick into 19 th-century Victorian London, complete with hats and a moustache for Watson –_

“Are you actually being serious?” John says. (Maybe he’s asleep and this is all a horrific dream.) “They’ve gone and made a film about our lives… in bloody _Victorian London_? Seriously, who comes up with these things?”

Anderson and Donovan look incredibly smug about the whole situation. John has never needed Sherlock to swoop in and interrupt a conversation so much.

“Solved it!” Sherlock announces grandly, picking himself off the table he’s just finished assaulting with the side of his face in an attempt to work out some miniscule detail or other. He breezes past Anderson and Donovan on his way out the door, stopping only to grab John by the elbow – “Come along, John!”

 John lets himself be tugged along, giving Anderson the finger when he not-so-subtly whispers, “ _Why don’t you two just elope, for God’s sakes_.”

He tosses the phone back at him on his way out and watches as Anderson fumbles to catch it, nearly dropping it in the process.

-

“So, have you heard?” John asks later that night, after Ridley’s been apprehended and placed in a holding cell in Scotland Yard. “Apparently we’re in a film.”

“Oh?” Sherlock says, peering intently into his microscope. John glances over his shoulder as he walks past on the way to the fridge; it appears to be yet another of Sherlock’s bacteria cultures.

John opens the fridge, reaching for the milk. “Yeah, some Hollywood director got wind of us and decided to make a film out of it. Something about Victorian London and risen ghost corp – _what the fuck is this meant to be,_ Sherlock?”

He strides over to the kitchen table and upends the contents of the milk carton over the surface. Frozen, dismembered toes scatter over the tabletop. One of them comes dangerously close to a Petri dish and Sherlock squawks, rescuing the culture before it gets contaminated by the toes.

“It was – an _experiment_ ,” Sherlock hisses, scrambling off his chair and making a grab for the milk carton. “It’s _important_ , John!”

“Everything’s a bloody experiment for you!” John fumes, flinging the carton at Sherlock with a vengeance. He catches it and starts collecting the scattered toes, shoving them back into the container. “What did I tell you about dismembered body parts in the fridge, Sherlock?”

“That I should – label them properly?” Sherlock asks. He’s still holding the Petri dish protectively, cradling it to his chest like a child would a pet.

John pinches the bridge of nose and exhales. “No,” he says, exasperated, “I said you should never put them in bloody fridge in the _first place_!”

“Oh.” Sherlock glances down at the carton he’s still holding, then slowly makes his way to the bin. “Sorry?” he offers, once the toes are safely discarded in the bin, and no longer mingling with John’s food.

“Better,” John sighs. He abandons his quest for milk and instead heads to the counter, intent on making a cup of tea and spending the rest of the night in front of the telly.

He’s barely reached for the kettle before Sherlock’s leaping up and out of chair again, hovering awkwardly between John and the kettle.

John narrows his eyes suspiciously. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, you know, just –” Sherlock deflects, reaching behind him for the kettle and swivelling to peer into it, “– checking.”

John cranes his neck to look inside the kettle. It’s conspicuously empty, although it does smell rather faintly of fish.

“Why don’t you go sit down,” Sherlock says loudly, propelling John towards the sitting room with one hand (he keeps the other firmly behind his back). “I’ll make us tea.”

John rolls his eyes, but goes anyway, smiling to himself.

-

“Sherlock!” John calls from where he’s sat on the sofa, not taking his eyes off the telly screen. “Come watch this – it’s hilarious.”

Sherlock peers around the doorway of their kitchen. He’s pushed his goggles up and there’s a smear of ash high on his cheek. “What?”

John tears his eyes away from the screen. “It’s that Hollywood movie they made of us a couple months ago. I have a moustache, apparently.”

Sherlock disappears back into the kitchen. John assumes he must not be interested, but a minute later Sherlock appears again, sans goggles and bearing two mugs of tea.

“Ta,” John says, as Sherlock sets one down by his elbow.

On-screen, Victorian-Sherlock tosses a cane at Victorian-John, who catches it. “ _Excellent reflexes. You’ll do_ ,” not-Sherlock says, the corner of his lips tugging upwards in a barely-there smirk.

Next to him, Sherlock fidgets on the sofa, then takes a large sip of the scalding tea and coughs. “That’s – _really_ hot,” Sherlock mutters, setting the mug down.

John glances at his friend, amused. “Did you forget that you _just_ made the tea approximately three seconds before you sat down? Of course it’s hot, idiot.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock says mutinously, turning his attention back to the telly.

A title sequence of sorts plays, after which Holmes and Watson are visited by DI Lestrade and given a case. Sherlock spends an inordinate amount of time making fun of Victorian-Lestrade for his sideburns. (“Look at them, John, they’re an abomination!”)

 

 

“ _Ah, ah, ah, ah – Holmes, you have misdiagnosed,_ ” Watson says, with a supreme air of confidence. John feels distinct pride at the thought that his talent and perceptive insight were acknowledged by the film’s writer.

“ _Then, correct me, doctor_ ,” Holmes says on-screen, lip curling suggestively, and John’s brain short-circuits as it supplies him with the many possible ways in which that particular phrase could be taken. Besides him, Sherlock chokes on the sip of tea he’s just taken.

They (very wisely) elect not to say anything.

Holmes and Watson visit the morgue to investigate the apparent murder committed by the ghost of a bride, and Sherlock almost falls off the sofa laughing when he sees Hooper in all ‘his’ resplendent Victorian glory.

“ _Well, aren’t you observant now that Daddy’s gone_ ,” Hooper sneers at Watson on-screen, and John’s eyebrows shoot to his hairline. (Next to him, Sherlock discreetly clears his throat, keeping his eyes fixed pointedly on the telly.)

“What the _hell_ is that supposed to mean?” he says to the room at large. He glances at Sherlock, who for some reason has sunk extremely low in his seat, almost as though he’s trying to melt into and become one with their sofa. “Sherlock?”

“I – what it means, John,” Sherlock says, not looking at him (is that a flush tingeing his cheeks?), “is that the screenwriter of this film was wildly anachronistic with his choice of words.”

John huffs and lets it slide, turning back to the film with slightly less vigour than he did five minutes ago.

The film is surprisingly good in its own right, and before long John finds himself getting caught up in the thrill of the chase, as Holmes and Watson hear Lady Carmichael’s story and head to Sir Eustace’s to make plans for the stakeout that night.

Holmes and Watson settle in for a night of ghost-baiting, and John finds himself leaning forward slightly in his seat, because it’s a suspenseful moment and he doesn’t want to miss the moment the ghost appears.

“ _Just two old friends, chewing the fat,_ ” Watson abruptly says, before glancing up to check that Holmes is listening, _“Man to man_.”

John frowns, because this sounds less promising than the adrenaline-laden ghost chase he’d been prepared for.

Watson continues probing Holmes with questions about Lady Carmichael, until at length Holmes says waspishly, “ _The fairer sex is your department, Watson_.”

John is (rather forcibly) reminded of the conversation he’d had with Sherlock, that first night at Angelo’s. Reminded of how girlfriends are ‘not really’ Sherlock’s ‘area’, of how Sherlock is ‘married’ to his ‘work’. He remembers the crushing disappointment he’d felt back then (and still does now) at the thought of never being able to have what ( _who_ ) he wanted.

“ _Why are you so determined to be alone?_ ” Watson demands of Holmes, while Sherlock sinks farther into the sofa cushion that he appears determined to diffuse by osmosis into.

John keeps his gaze trained firmly on the screen, and most definitely does _not_ let his mind wander to Dartmoor, to _I don’t have friends, I’ve just got one_ , and to _alone is what I have, alone protects me_.

He wonders why he ever thought watching their fictional lives transposed into an alternate Victorian setting would ever be a good idea. It’s hitting a bit too close to home, and neither he (nor Sherlock, judging from how far he’s sunken into their sofa) are comfortable with it. Maybe should just turn the telly off.

“ _Dammit, Holmes, you are flesh and blood!”_ Watson exclaims with feeling, “ _You have feelings. You have – you_ must _have – impulses.”_

John can feel heat rising in his cheeks. He glances at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye; his friend’s face is flushed and his eyes are slightly glazed over as he stares, transfixed, at the Victorian version of John’s self interrogating him about his sex life.

Thankfully, they’re saved from further embarrassment when the ghost makes an appearance and everything goes to hell for Holmes and Watson. The night turns out to be one of Holmes’ rare failures, ending with Sir Eustace’s death and the spectre’s escape. John finds himself struck by the guilt writ all over Holmes’ face, as he gazes in horror at Sir Eustace’s body. (He wonders if that’s what he looked like, kneeling on blood-stained concrete outside St. Bart’s and desperately feeling for a pulse in Sherlock’s neck.)

On-screen, things take an unexpected turn when Holmes finds the note attached to Sir Eustace’s body (“Miss me?”) and Moriarty’s involvement in the affair is made evident. John watches as Holmes’ confidence steadily deteriorates on the journey back to their rooms, watches as the first thing he does upon entering the flat is make a beeline for a chest of drawers, watches in dawning horror as Holmes turns to reveal a syringe and case in his hands.

Sherlock makes a muffled noise, halfway between a sob and a hysterical laugh, as Holmes injects himself and slips into a hazy, drug-induced hallucination. John wonders if now would be a good time to switch the telly off, because the sex talk during the stakeout was fine, but this – this is knocking down every single wall Sherlock’s ever built up around himself and John’s fairly certain that if he could, he’d be able to hear Sherlock’s Mind Palace crumbling.

On the telly, Holmes finds himself by a waterfall – by the Reichenbach Falls, to be exact, with Moriarty advancing on him, backing him towards the edge of the precipice.

“ _You once called your brain a hard drive_ ,” Moriarty says, smirking. He tilts his head to the side (John shudders; it’s eerily similar to what the real Moriarty would do), “ _Well, say hello to the virus._ ”

Holmes and Moriarty grapple with each other on-screen, although it’s clear by Holmes’ strained expression that Moriarty’s gaining ground. John looks away from the fight to glance sideways at Sherlock, wondering how an accurate a depiction of Sherlock’s Mind Palace this director’s construction is. (Judging from how hard the hand Sherlock has wrapped around his mug is shaking, John would hazard a guess at ‘disturbingly accurate’.)

“ _I am your weakness! I keep you down!_ ” Moriarty shouts, aiming a kick at Holmes’ abdomen. “ _Every time you stumble, every time you fail, when you’re weak – I – am – there!_ ” He punctuates the last few words with more kicks, until Holmes is curled in on himself and gasping in pain.

“ _Don’t try to fight it_ ,” Moriarty says, grinning sadistically down at Holmes. (Sherlock makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a whimper. His free hand, resting on his thigh, clenches into a fist.) “ _Lie back and_ lose _!_ ”

There’s a devastation in Holmes’ eyes that John can’t bear to see, and when Holmes stops resisting, simply lets his hand slip from Moriarty’s throat and closes his eyes, waiting for death, John reaches for the remote. “Right, I’m turning this off.”

“Don’t –” Sherlock’s hand on his wrist stops him. John turns. His friend’s eyes are riveted on the screen; at where his Victorian counterpart has stopped fighting, has given up. Sherlock takes a deep breath, exhales shakily. “I need – to see this through.”

John relents, turning back to the screen to see Moriarty about to push Sherlock off the cliff’s edge, into the yawning abyss of the falls. “ _At the end, it’s always just you and me!_ ” Moriarty shouts with a demented glee, hands fisted in Holmes’ lapels.

There’s the sound of a pistol cocking, and Watson steps into frame. John sags against the sofa cushions in relief; he doesn’t think he’d be able to handle it if the director had actually written Holmes’ death into the film. Watching Sherlock plummet to his death from a rooftop was more than enough, thank you very much. He has no desire to see it enacted, not even a Victorian version of it.

“ _There’s always two of us,_ ” Watson declares matter-of-factly, as Moriarty gets on his knees, looking extremely put-out. “ _Don’t you read the Strand?_ ”

John blinks; there are tears in his eyes. (He dabs discreetly at them with the sleeve of his jumper.) At some point during the course of the film, Sherlock evidently moved, because John distinctly remembers there being the length of an entire seat between them on the sofa, and now Sherlock’s sat right next to him, the sides of their legs pressed together.

“ _That – was brilliant, Watson_ ,” Holmes is saying emphatically, his smile tired but affectionate as he picks himself off the floor and goes to stand by Watson’s side. (John wishes Sherlock smiled at him like that, with such sincerity and emotion.) “ _How did you know where to find me?_ ”

“ _It was a simple enough deduction, really,”_ Watson replies, clearly delighted at being able to show off to the sleuth, for once. “ _You left Sir Eustace’s house in a rush, clearly upset, and after reading the note our dear professor_ ,” here Watson digs his pistol into Moriarty’s back, “ _left you, and the abhorrence with which you always mention the Alps, and your flair for the dramatic, it seemed only fitting that this should be the setting of your final confrontation._ ”

Holmes is staring at Watson with his eyes wide and his mouth agape, clearly impressed and struggling to hide it. He seems to have completely forgotten about the criminal mastermind currently residing on his knees between them.

“ _You amaze me, Watson_ ,” Holmes says, eyes alight with affection. (It makes John’s heart ache just watching the comfortable familiarity with which Holmes addresses Watson. Why can’t he have this in real life?) “ _My Boswell is learning. You never fail to astonish me with your insight and depth of perception._ ”

Besides him, Sherlock shifts so the back of his hand brushes John’s leg. John almost stops breathing, keeping his eyes trained on the screen as he inches infinitesimally closer.

Watson looks surprised but extremely pleased. “ _That’s – not what you usually tell me,_ ” he says.

“ _Oh?_ ” Holmes frowns, like he can’t for the life of him fathom why he wouldn’t want to praise Watson’s to the skies, “ _What do I usually say?_ ”

“ _That I’m slow, a half-wit and that I’m not acclimatized to getting to the end of my own sentences._ ”

“ _Ah, that’s,_ ” Holmes says, looking apologetic. He takes a deep breath, as though summoning courage. “ _That’s not – I don’t mean – Watson, you must understand that I never meant any of that. You are, without a doubt, the most unfailingly loyal, courageous and_ perceptive _… person I have ever had the pleasure of being acquainted with_. _In short, I am honoured to have the privilege of calling you my friend._ ”

“ _Holmes_ ,” Watson says (his voice sounds choked), clearly thrown by the detective’s response. The camera zooms in until it’s just the two of them in shot, and the thundering break of the waterfall fades to a background hum, the soundtrack replaced instead by the faint strains of a violin playing.

“ _Watson_ ,” Holmes murmurs as, striding across the few short feet that separate them, he takes Watson’s face in his hands and kisses him, heedless of the water sluicing down on them from above, or of the criminal mastermind kneeling on the cliff edge mere feet away from them.

“Nngh,” Sherlock says intelligibly from beside him. John chances a glance; Sherlock’s ears are burning red as he hurriedly raises the mug to his lips and drains it.

“ _Ugh, why don’t you two just elope already, for God’s sakes,_ ” Moriarty groans, and the camera pans out to include his exasperated face. Holmes and Watson ignore his comment, too distracted as they are by the presence of the other’s tongue in their mouths.

“ _You_ _know what, this has been fun_ ,” Moriarty says, “ _But even I don’t deserve to witness such an atro –”_

In perfect synchronicity, Holmes and Watson aim a kick at Moriarty’s back, sending the criminal mastermind plummeting to his watery doom hundreds of feet below, all without breaking the kiss.

“ _John_ ,” Holmes gasps, when they finally break apart. One of his hands has made their way into Watson’s hair; the other around the back of his neck. “ _Can I call you John, now?_ ”

“ _I suppose, if needs must,_ ” Watson replies, the corners of his lips tugged upwards in helpless affection for the man in front of him, “ _Then I must return the favour, Sherlock_.”

A delicious shudder runs down John’s spine at hearing Holmes and Watson address each other with their Christian names. It feels decidedly more intimate than even the kiss their Victorian counterparts shared; this simple act of calling someone by their name.

It feels closer, so much closer to home. It feels _real_ , and maybe – maybe, if he closes his eyes and tries hard enough, heh can pretend it’s _Sherlock_ ’s voice, not Holmes’. Sherlock telling him he’s brilliant, telling him he’s amazing, and courageous, and unfailingly loyal.

“ _What about the public? How much do I tell the Strand?_ ” Watson is asking of Holmes now, as the pair pick their way over the craggy rocks, towards dry land.

“ _Nothing, John,_ ” Holmes says matter-of-factly, _“You tell them nothing. It’s just you and me against the rest of the world._ ”

The scene fades to black, but the credits don’t roll. Instead, there are hazy flashes of light and the sound of Watson’s voice, “ _Which is it this time, Holmes? Morphine or cocaine?_ ”

Holmes wakes to find himself lying on his side on the floor of their sitting room, the discarded syringe not far from his hand. There’s a brief flicker of emotion over Holmes’ face, a barely-there touch of grief for the not-kiss that occurred by the side of the Reichenbach Falls. He quickly schools his face into indifference, the sudden change of expression as jarring as if he’d slipped a mask on.

“ _Cocaine,_ ” Holmes concedes, carefully picking himself and the syringe off the floor, “ _A seven percent solution. Would you care to try it?_ ”

Watson looks positively beside himself with rage. “ _Never on a case!_ ” he shouts, _“You promised – never on a case, Holmes!”_

“ _Joh –_ Watson, _”_ Holmes hastily corrects himself. He holds out his hands, placating. “ _I apologize, I do. But I needed the extra stimulus to push myself –”_

“Push _yourself?_ ” Watson snaps incredulously, “ _Listen to me, Holmes. This isn’t a game, and your life isn’t something I can bear to see you gamble away. Your readers need you, the public need you, and dear God above,_ I _need you to hold yourself to a higher standard than this!_ ”

“Enough,” Sherlock says. The hand grasping his mug is shaking so badly it’s a wonder he hasn’t dropped it yet. “John, _enough_. Turn the damn thing off.”

John scrambles to the remote, switches the telly off and plunges the flat into silence. For a long while, they sit there, neither of them saying a word.

“So,” John says eventually, clearing his throat. He’s afraid to look at Sherlock. “That was – quite something, huh?”

“Yes, _something_ , indeed,” Sherlock says stiffly. He stands so quickly he collides with the coffee table, and makes his escape through the kitchen door before John can get another word out.

John is left sitting on sofa staring blankly at their telly, feeling sad, annoyed, and very, _very_ confused.

-

The next morning, things are almost unbearably awkward.

Is there proper etiquette when it comes to mornings-after with your best mate, right after you spent the previous night watching your gay Victorian counterparts make out on the telly? If so, John would dearly love to know.

“Morning, Sherlock,” he says in greeting, reaching over the detective’s shoulder to get at the salt on the countertop.

What he’s not prepared for is Sherlock peering wide-eyed at him over the lens of his microscope, before hurriedly pushing his chair back and stalking to the sitting room, where he promptly flops onto their sofa and turns to bury his head in between the cushions.

A line from the film plays on loop in John’s head: _Pure reason toppled by sheer melodrama. Your life in a nutshell_. He almost smiles at how apt the description is.

“Leave me alone,” is all that John is able to get out of him for the rest of the morning, although there are two other separate requests for John to make him tea. (John acquiesces, of course, because it’s Sherlock and he’ll never be able to deny him anything he wants. Not even tea. _Especially_ not tea.)

“Right, I’ll be heading to the practice now,” John says to the Sherlock-shaped lump on the sofa.

Nothing.

“See you in a bit, then,” John says, sighing, as he heads out the door.

-

It only gets worse from there, their relationship growing tense and awkward, so much so that even Lestrade and the rest of Scotland Yard are catching on. (Which is saying something, since they so rarely catch on to any pertinent information.)

Sherlock’s been tense and skittish ever since That Night (as John has taken to calling it in his head), as easily frightened as a colt.

“Any new cases on the website?” John asked this morning, bending slightly in order to read the laptop screen over Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock startled and veered away from him without finesse, slamming his elbow against the edge of the table and knocking a stack of papers to the floor with his other arm.

“I – yes,” he said haltingly, a flush rising to his cheeks as he surveyed the damage. “New case, yes. Very – very interesting. Something about a missing earring. Excuse me.”

With that he brushed past John, leaving behind him a chaotic tableau of forensic analysis reports, old case files and sheet music scattered on the kitchen floor. John sighed, wondering if things were ever going back to the way they were, or if they were stuck in perpetual awkward limbo, their lives ruined by a film starring the fictional, Victorian versions of themselves.

He was about to leave when he noticed the tab that Sherlock had hurriedly minimized on his browser when John came in. Glancing towards the still-empty doorway, John hurriedly clicked into it. His eyes were immediately assaulted with pastel fonts and an overly hipster blog layout. But that wasn’t what caught John’s eye. What did was the blog’s title, done in a cursive, loopy font that John had no desire to see ever again in his lifetime: **_How to Confess to Your Crush_**.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John murmured, scrolling down the myriad ways the blog advised its readers to confess. They were all terrible and clearly aimed at a readership of approximately 13-16 year old girls.

Thinking back on it, John grins, because it’s such a _Sherlock_ thing to do. He sincerely hopes Sherlock doesn’t follow any of the tips the blog gave, because it contained advice like ‘ _slip him a note in his locker every day telling him all the things you like about him!’_

Whatever Sherlock’s planning to do, or when he’s planning to do it, John doesn’t know.

But he _does_ have a plan that will (hopefully) resolve their current situation and alleviate any of the lingering awkwardness.

-

His ‘plan’ consists of taking Sherlock to dinner. (What? He’s never said it was a complicated plan.)

Angelo beams at the sight of them and ushers them in, booting a pair of customers unceremoniously from their seats so he can show John and Sherlock to their usual table. (“Sorry,” John mouths at them. They don’t seem very impressed.)

“Aaand a candle, for you and your date, Mr. Holmes,” Angelo says, winking at John as he slides the candle onto the table between them.

“He’s not my –” Sherlock starts to say tiredly (because John usually says so, at this point), pushing the candle away from him like it’s offended him on a personal level.

“Actually,” John says, placing a hand on Sherlock’s wrist, “He is.”

Sherlock’s gaze snaps up to meet his, and there’s a naked vulnerability in his eyes, in the line of his throat as he swallows, in the frantic beat of his pulse that John can feel under his fingertips.

“Alright, then, I’ll leave you boys to it,” Angelo says, winking not-so-discreetly at John once more, before turning and bustling back to the kitchen.

“I –” Sherlock says, his voice coming out an octave higher than usual. He swallows, tries again. “I’m… your date?” The words are unsure, and said with an inflection that suggests Sherlock thinks this to be a joke of some sort, or a mistake that John’s very quickly going to correct.

John clears his throat, thinks about the words he so carefully prepared yesterday night, decides they don’t matter. “If that’s alright with you.”

“Why,” Sherlock narrows his eyes at John, glances down at the candle suspiciously. “Why are you doing this? John, I swear to God, if this is out of pity I will –”

“It’s not,” John says, letting go of Sherlock’s wrist, twining their hands together instead. “I’ll tell you what this is – it’s something that’s been a long time coming.”

“And you’re doing this because…?” Sherlock asks, still not looking entirely convinced as he stares at their joined hands.

“Because you are utterly brilliant as the world’s only consulting detective, Sherlock, but also the world’s most unobservant person when it comes to reading body language.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, presumably to argue. John cuts him off before he can do so, “What I’m trying to say, Sherlock, is that for a long time, I’ve been too – afraid of what people might think of us, too much of a coward, to admit to myself about how I feel. And then you died, and I had never regretted anything more in my life. So, believe me when I say I mean it: will you be my date tonight?”

“ _God_ , yes,” Sherlock says, pulse still racing beneath John’s hand, smiling crookedly at John.

John’s answering grin is so wide he thinks he may have pulled a muscle or two.

-

Later, when dinner’s done and the bottle of wine drained, and Angelo’s had to kick them out of his restaurant because it’s past closing time, they head back to the flat and settle on the sofa, but this time the telly’s off and the silence that envelops them is hazy and warm.

“’m glad you did it, John,” Sherlock says finally, twisting round to face John. His eyes are glazed slightly from the alcohol, and his cheeks are tinged red. “You’re the only one who could do it, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Turn me from _an unprincipled drug addict_ into _some sort of gentleman hero_ ,” Sherlock says with austerity, then ruining it when he giggles at the end of the sentence. “You’re – _ha_ , probably the only person in this world capable of doing something like that. Well done, John.”

“I –” John says, heart clenching at the self-deprecation he hears in Sherlock’s voice. “You’re not an –”

“Oh, but I am,” Sherlock says, flinging an arm out towards the silent telly. “You said so yourself. For some reason, you see worlds where no one else can see anything of value whatsoever.”

“Is that what you think, or is that what people’ve told you?” John asks gently, reaching out and placing a hand on Sherlock’s forearm.

Sherlock twitches, but doesn’t move away. “In this case, possibly both. And they’re right, John,” Sherlock says, twisting his hands together in his lap, “They’re right.”

“Right?” John says, “About what?”

“About – _everything_!” Sherlock snaps, running his free hand through his hair in frustration. “Mycroft, Donovan, Scotland Yard – even ‘Watson’ –” he spits the name out, stabbing the air with the quotation marks, “– I’m just an addict in need of a fix, I’m, I’m not a hero, or whatever picture you paint of me in your blogs, John. I’m not even married to my work, am I, I just use it to get high when I can’t get my hands on the real thing, and I – you – John, you _deserve_ better.”

“Listen to me, Sherlock,” John says, because even though the pain in Sherlock’s voice was evident he’s already turning away, and John’s not going to be the coward again, not this time. “You forget that I’ve known you five years, and that in that time you’ve been an unbridled prick to everyone I know, terrified away any and all of my potential girlfriends, swanned off a rooftop and made me mourn you for _months_ , and that I’m still here. What does that tell you about me, then? Go on, deduce this one for yourself.”

Sherlock frowns. “That you should re-assess your lifestyle choices?”

John rolls his eyes. _Smartarse_. “That I’ll always be here when you need me, Sherlock. That it’ll always be the two of us against the rest of this bloody world.”

There’s a faint glimmer of wetness in Sherlock’s eyes when he turns to face John, shifting until their knees knock together. The kiss, when it happens, is a simple press of dry, chapped lips against John’s, and a sweep of Sherlock’s tongue on his, a fleeting thing that’s gone in the second it takes John to process it.

What follows is a routine so comfortable and familiar, it feels like they’re slipping back into habit, when really it’s the first time they’ve done so. They watch crap telly together until an ungodly hour of night, Sherlock ridiculing every single plot hole and John content to just listen.

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock says, out of nowhere. The show they’re watching is over and he’s slumped sideways with his head on John’s shoulder and his eyes closed. He sounds about two seconds away from falling asleep.

John doesn’t ask, he simply says, “You’re welcome,” and places a hand on Sherlock’s knee, because they’ve come _so far_ , and maybe it doesn’t matter that it took them this long to get to this point, that it took a Hollywood film about their gay Victorian selves to galvanize them into action.

What matters is that now they _are_ here, and John wouldn’t have had it happen any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> hope y'all liked it (: this was certainly fun to write
> 
> comment and tell me what you thought if you did enjoy it :3 
> 
> (and hopefully we can all cry together as a group bc of the many overwhelming feelings we have that TAB gave us)


End file.
